


Derek Is Not A Model... But Nobody Ever Told Stiles That

by UpAgainstTheWorld



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Human, Crack, Fashion Designer AU, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings, fashiondesigner!stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:53:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UpAgainstTheWorld/pseuds/UpAgainstTheWorld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is having a bad day. It only gets worse.</p><p>Or, where Stiles mistakes Derek for a model. Everything works out in the end, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Derek Is Not A Model... But Nobody Ever Told Stiles That

“Oh my god, _where_ is my model?” Stiles asked no one in particular as he frantically weaved through the crowded backstage. 

His show started in five minutes and his new model had not shown up yet. Stiles was on the verge of panicking. He ducked around various women and men, and peered through around the room, for what seemed like the hundredth time. 

Then he saw him, standing by a model that was getting finishing touches on her makeup done in the chairs. Stiles’ eyes raked over the specimen, drinking his fill of tall, dark, and handsome. 

The guy was literally the most downright attractive man that Stiles had ever had the fortune of laying his undeserving eyes on. That was saying quite a lot, since Stiles worked with hundreds of models daily, being a widely successful fashion designer and all. 

This guy took the cake. And licked the icing off with his tongue. And then sucked his fingers clean. 

_“There_ you are, I have been looking _everywhere_ for you.” Stiles panted as he approached the wide eyed sex-on-a-stick. What color were those even? It was like seafoam green or something, mixed with forest moss and Stiles wanted to swim in those swirling pools. 

“You are due on stage in five minutes,” Stiles stated before looking down and promptly losing his shit. “And you haven’t even changed, what is _wrong_ with you?” he wailed unhappily, grabbing a fistful of Walking Sin’s shirt, and dragged him over to the changing stalls. 

Greek God was spluttering and blushing, not making much sense and Stiles thought it was adorable.

‘No time for that’ his brain admonished, ‘you can get his number later, when you're not in a tizzy about this.’

Stiles let him go and yanked the curtain back, handing him the outfit he'd been carrying with him, thrusting it at his chest. 

Hot as Sin looked down at the outfit as if he'd never seen it before and gulped, glancing up to Stiles with terrified eyes. 

Stiles blinked. 

“Oh Jesus fucking Christ, don’t tell me you’ve never seen wrap around straps before,” he growled angrily, ripping the plastic slip cover off, tossing it carelessly to the ground and maneuvered his way around to grip at the new model’s waist, pulling up his soft red sweater that was unfairly form fitting and had honest to god _thumbholes_. He yanked it off, almost ripping it when it got stuck around Unfairly Beautiful’s head. 

Stiles ignored the newbie’s stutters as he dropped to his knees and undid his pants with practiced ease, which were like _painted on_ they were so tight. They had to be pushed down his calves and tugged off around his ankles after Stiles wrestled his shoes and socks off, intending to put more on after he was done dressing him in the outfit. 

Stiles got his pants on and fastened tightly around Sex Embodied, making sure they weren’t too tight. Then he stood back up and glared at him as he started protesting again, which was downright comical because Stiles was putting on this guy’s clothes for him because he didn’t know what _wrap around straps were_. 

This perfect human being sure was a blusher for someone who was a model, someone who generally had little to no concept of modesty. 

Still, despite Stiles’ anger, he was glad that he had the privilege of getting to touch Inhumanly Beautiful. Stiles knew that he would be enjoying that later when he went to bed that night. 

He tugged firmly on the straps across Come Fuck Me’s chest, making sure that they contoured his visible pecs through the sheer material.

“I'm glad they didn’t do much to you in makeup. You don’t seem to be wearing much at all, which is for the better because to do anything to your face would be a sacrilege, especially your eyebrows. I can’t stand models who don’t have eyebrows.” Stiles told him matter-of-factly, and noticed as Beauty Incarnate turned a deep red color. 

“See? To hide that blush would be damning.” He said to prove his point, smiling triumphantly, and watched as his cheeks got even darker. Stiles didn’t know that was possible.

Over the intercom, Stiles could hear them introducing his new spring line and Stiles shrieked, taken by surprise. He herded his model over to the front of the line, where all his other models were waiting for Hottest Thing Ever.

The stammering started up again and Stiles pushed him onto the catwalk when heard what must be his name.

“- introducing new model for Stiles, Miguel Ohelka wearing ‘Bondage as Clothes’.” 

Said person made a strangled noise and his face flamed brilliantly. Stiles shoved him further, to where he was in the entire audience’s line of sight, in full view. Stiles thought he noticed Lady Gaga in the front row. 

He tripped over his feet and Stiles could find that adorable some other time.

“Go, go! What are you waiting for, _walk_!” Stiles hissed at Miguel, who stood frozen, a petrified look on his face. 

“ _ **GO**_!” he shouted a bit louder this time, startling the god and prompting him into action. He walked down the catwalk hesitantly, and Stiles wanted to slap a hand over his face. 

Lydia stepped up next, following much more fluidly, and then Danny, who sauntered out.  
Then it was Allison's turn and when Miguel didn’t come back three persons later, Stiles peeked out. 

He groaned. 

The person in question was standing on the edge of the right side of the T of Stiles’ runway, where photographers were swarming like flies on a hunk of meat.

And what a hunk of meat he was.

They were probably pissing themselves in excitement as they saw just how downright sinful he was, and that was even _before_ Stiles dressed him in his secret project that he had kept under wraps until it was time for the show. 

Stiles looked him over, and yelled shrilly, clutching his hair in distress, wailing in despair, “He's _barefoot_! Holy shit, he's fucking barefoot! How could I _miss_ that? The press is going to have a field day with this!” Stiles never had barefoot models. 

_Never._

At least three photographers were taking pictures of his feet, and Stiles wanted to sob. 

“I’ll tell him to come back, okay?” Scott, wonderful angel that he was, told him and Stiles nodded, and pulled his favorite model into a hug, making him smile lopsidedly. Then he pushed him out when Lydia came back, going off to the side. 

Stiles watched as Scott lingered by Miguel, striking a pose with a hand on his hip, before moving on, going to the other side of the T, doing the same thing. Miguel turned around and walked back, turning the corner and almost falling right off the catwalk. 

Flashes fired rapidly and Stiles facepalmed. 

Miguel recovered quickly, but the damage was already done. He smiled nervously, cheeks burning. 

And holy fucking shit on a unicorn, that _was_ Lady Gaga. 

When he finally stepped off of the platform, Stiles came down on him like hurricane Katrina. 

“Your shoes! Your walk! Geez, you almost killed yourself out there when you tripped. How are you real? You just stood there for the pesky photographers, who, _by the way_ , are under specific instructions not to tell any of my models to hold still or move to their liking. And what's worse is you actually _listened_ to them! Haven’t you had enough experience to do otherwise? You can’t possibly be that-"

“I'm not a model,” Miguel stammered out before looking away. 

Stiles gaped at him in horror. 

“I'm the new makeup artist. Today was my first day. I'm not Miguel whoever, my name is Derek Hale.” He told Stiles quietly, still looking away. 

A strangled noise burst from Stiles’ throat before he could suppress it. 

“But you let me undress you!” He shrieked, pulling harshly on his hair.  
Derek blushed, and glanced back to Stiles’ impression of a fish. 

“Um… I- you didn’t really give me a choice.” He told Stiles, all embarrassed and shy, and _stupidly **adorable**_ , the blush coming back full force.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but realized he didn’t and shut it with a click. 

“I thought you _had_ to be a model, because what would someone as attractive as _you_ being _doing_ here, and not _modeling_? It’s practically a sin! You have _got_ to be the hottest person I've ever had the pleasure of seeing, and I work with _supermodels_! I mean, god, your cheekbones and jaw line and eyes _alone_ could make a straight man swoon and practically fall over himself to hop on your dick, and that’s not even _considering_ your body! Jesus shit, it must be made of actual marble or something, it looks so firm. Do you live at the gym? I bet that you could probably pin someone up to a wall while you fuck them. It’s so fucking unfair that YOU'RE NOT EVEN A MODEL!!!!” Stiles wailed hysterically. 

Stiles could feel the entire room’s eyes on him as he finished his rant, huffing. Derek looked mortified, like he wished a hole would swallow him up.

Then the door opened and a guy stepped in, looking around, a crease furrowing in between his eyes. 

“Uh, hi, I'm looking for Stiles? I'm the new model, Miguel Ohelka.” The guy said in an accent and Stiles saw red. 

“Get. Out.” He fumed, glaring at him. 

“Um, what?” The real Miguel looked taken aback and Stiles lost it.

“ _Get **out**_ ,” he roared, pointing at the door behind him, “you were late and now you’ve been replaced by this guy, who is a better model than you will _ever_ be, even if he's _not_ one.” Derek looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t dare.

Miguel left quietly, completely humiliated.

“So…” Stiles turned to Derek, blowing out a breath, all the anger leaving him, before smiling genuinely for the first time the whole day. 

Derek was smiling faintly, peeking up at Stiles through his incredible eyelashes. 

“Do you want to get dinner after this?” 

Derek let a smile that could rival the sun, looking shocked but pleased. 

“I’d love to.” He told Stiles, nodding.

**Author's Note:**

> Never google the name Miguel Ohelka. _Never_ view the images.  
>  I was mentally scarred. 
> 
> Also, let me know about any mistakes, grammatical or otherwise. I don't mind. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Any ideas for a sequel? I'd love to hear feedback. :)


End file.
